Shattered Vows

Broken Beginnings

I look into the mirror, tracing the soft curve of my cheek, down to the slight point of my chin. My eyes, a muted green like moss growing on the side of an ancient tree, stare back at me with a hollowness I wish I could fill. The dark circles beneath them are more stubborn than any concealer could ever hide, a permanent reminder of sleepless nights spent tangled in memories I can't forget.

My hair is my only solace, a cascade of deep chestnut waves that fall past my shoulders, thick and unruly, just like me. Sometimes I think it's the only part of me that hasn't been dulled by life. It's ironic, really, how something so wild can grow from someone who feels so... tamed, beaten into submission by the weight of everything I've been through.

I was born in a small town where everyone knew everyone else's business, but no one really knew me. My father was a shadow in the house, a ghost haunting the hallways with the smell of whiskey on his breath. My mother was a flower that wilted too soon, her laughter fading with each passing year until she was just as much a phantom as he was. By the time I was 10, I'd learned that love could be as painful as it was beautiful. I stopped trying to reach out to either of them, and they stopped pretending they had the strength to hold me.

School was a blur of faces and voices that never seemed to include me. I wasn't invisible, but I wasn't noticed either. I was just there, a fixture in the background of everyone else's lives. I had friends, or at least I thought I did, but they were more like acquaintances who tolerated my presence rather than people who truly cared.

My escape came in the form of books. They were the only constant in my life, the only things that didn't change or leave me behind. I devoured them, living vicariously through characters who had the courage to live their lives fully, something I could never seem to do. They became my friends, my family, my entire world.

Then, at 17, my mother passed away. The house that was once filled with her presence, even if it was only a shadow, became cold and empty. My father, if you could even call him that, sank deeper into his bottles, and I... I was left to fend for myself. The few people who pretended to care offered their condolences, but it felt more like a formality than genuine concern. I couldn't even cry at her funeral. The tears just wouldn't come, like I'd already shed them all over the years.

Now, at 18, with my 19th birthday approaching, I'm here, still trying to piece together the fragments of who I'm supposed to be. I have no idea where my life is headed, but I know one thing for sure: I can't keep living in the past. I need to find something, anything, that will give my life meaning again.

But for now, I'll just keep staring into this mirror, trying to recognize the girl looking back at me.